Things Have Changed
by Denealle
Summary: Mycroft spent A special Christmas with a vow spoken by Lestrade in a special way.


I confess that English is not my mother tongue, so there might be some mistakes in the article. Please don't take it seriously. This is my first fanfiction and it's a slash. If you feel uncomfortable about it, please click "X". It's very kind of you to spare a few seconds to review.

Thank you! Now, enjoy!

Mycroft never liked Christmas. Unless it was Mommy who cherished a family reunion on that so-called special day that much, he would've forced the Parliament to abolish the holiday. Although Sherlock tried his best to stand against his brother from every tiny aspect, he could not fight it that he disliked Christmas as much as Mycroft did.

However, after establishing a stable, lifetime relationship with DI Lestrade, Mycroft realized that things had changed. Greg never felt it special about Christmas, either. He would love to spend it restfully and particularly, but he couldn't. A psychopathic murderer wouldn't take a break at Christmas after all.

Oddly enough, it is because of the time-consuming professions they both have that some senses suddenly appear in a small but warm reunion consisting of a bottle of champagne, a box of truffles from a certain ambassador, and a cuddle in front of the fireplace. Mycroft would say that it's Lestrade who likes that, and he only has no reason to disagree.

Anyway, this Christmas is different. Right before Mycroft booked a reserved table in the posh restaurant they often went to, Lestrade suggested then going to a pub. Mycroft frowned at lestrade's excuse that he was tired to those high-standard dishes, and wanted to recapture the old days. Mycroft knew he was lying, but also felt curious about what it was under Lestrade's charming, silver hair. Finally, Mycroft surrendered to Lestrade's adorable, puppy-dog eyes, which are the only thing that could make him do so.

So, here he is, in the pub near Lestrade's former flat, alone. No one can feel the same way as Mycroft does. His polished three-piece attire looks so weird among those ragged drunkards. The scent of his cologne can no longer keep its sanctity against the reek of sweat and smoke.

"Where are you?" Mycroft texts silently, ignoring the smirks around him and the repellent staring from a bartender.

"Sorry. Caught by a sudden case. I'm right on my way." Lestrade replied a few minutes later.

After an exhausting hour waiting, Mycroft catches Lestrade's figure. He seems to be popular in the pub, so it takes Lestrade some efforts to surpass those fallows to reach out for Mycroft.

Lestrade kissed Mycroft on the lips briefly but delicately. His cold lips turn out to be a salvation for Mycroft that enables him to feel better.

"I'm so glad you didn't send your personnel to clear the pub up." Lestrade grins.

"As what you said, this is part of your life, and I should accept it originally." Mycroft sighs. And I'm always willing to accept everything about you. Mycroft is usually generous to reveal his genuine thoughts to Lestrade, but he decides to hold this one back.

"But I still can't see the point, really. Gregory, why are we here?" Mycroft sighs deeper.

"Where is the band? There was always a band playing." Lestrade seems not to hear what Mycroft said, but looks around to seek the vanished band.

"Oh, leave it. This place cannot bear one more decibel." Mycroft sees Lestrade leave to talk to the landlord when he spills his remark.

Watching Lestrade chatting and laughing with the vulgar, flabby man, Mycroft shakes his head and looks down to appreciate the handle of his black umbrella. Then he looks up, considering if he should text Anthea to truss Greg away.

However, Lestrade has disappeared. It is Lestrade vanishing instead of the stupid band. Mycroft seldom felt tense, but now he does.

Then, all of a sudden, the pub turns darkened. Mycroft manages to regain calmness among shoos and whistles. The shadow of darkness seems to relax his nerve. Mycroft looks at his mobile phone, beginning to text. Before he finishes his order to Anthea, a small stage in the front is lit up. Mycroft looks forwards.

Lestrade is up there, on the stage, holding a violoncello. The pub is startled. No one can tell what's happening, even Mycroft. He can assure Lestrade was never able to play an instrument, he can't even sing a song, and it's been ages since Mycroft himself touched a cello.

Without a word, Lestrade begins to perform. His eyes closed slightly, buff shimmer fondling his tender skin and silvery grey hair, the way Lestrade sitting there presents a perfect visual feast. He played the "Auld Lang Syne" first, and then a composition without a name. The melody is beautiful, but a little bit awkward. The tune shifts erratically, from slow to fast, gloomy to lively. It sounds like a man whispering his heart out to his lover. However, most audiences can understand it. Nearly everyone's face writes both intoxication and blank. Only Mycroft is smiling warmly, his eyes sparkling.

Suddenly, after a swing of the bow, Lestrade stops. The pub is too shocked to applaud.

"This is just for you, my love. I love you, and merry Christmas." Staring straight forward, Lestrade says quietly.

Leaving the annoying acclaim behind, Lestrade steps off the stage, hands back the cello to the landlord, and gets out of the pub, knowing Mycroft will be waiting outside in his sleek black car.

On the way to their home, neither of them speaks. Now, it's Lestrade's turn to feel tense. Glancing at Mycroft's chilly face, Lestrade wonders if he has made a big mistake.

The once they enter the house, Lestrade can't bear it anymore.

"OK, I'm sorry. I sh-" Lestrade tries to apologize but Mycroft turns around abruptly, slaps the door up, shoves him on the wall, and kisses him intensely, wrapping him tight, the rest of the words swallowed.

After a long, intimate, and sloppy kiss, both of them lean upon each other, panting.

Holding Lestrade tighter, Mycroft breathes in his hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo and Lestrade. "I accuse you of making me spend that long sorting myself out."

"Oh god, did you not like it? I…I'm so-"Lestrade stammers.

"I do. I like it. Thank you, Inspector." Mycroft interrupt him."_**I love you, Gregory.**_"

"I love you, too. And I plead guilty."Lestrade holds Mycroft back, grinning triumphantly.

"_**I love you. I love you with these vows. No matter which corner of the world you are staying at, I will always be waiting for you with a piece of cake. I will hold your hand when you go to see a dentist. I will stop you when you are about to carry out a new ridiculous diet. I will cuddle you whether it is thundering or snowing outside.**_" Mycroft murmurs, lips pressing on Lestrade's lobe.

That was what Lestrade said in the pub through the cello. That is a very old cipher distributed by musical instruments, used mainly in the World War Ⅱ. Only few experts can understand it now. Mycroft is one of them.

"How did you know the cipher, and how did you find out I can play the cello?" Mycroft asks Lestrade, pulling himself back a bit.

"Well, just Sherlock and I had a small talk in a serial murder case involving some kind of code. I asked him about you, and he reluctantly admitted you are a specialist. He also said you used to play the cello." Lestrade confesses, flushed.

"Indeed. Then you studied the cipher, learning how to play the cello, and planed this with the landlord in the pub?"

"Oh, just a few days in the library, and some help of a pub owner I once helped who coincidentally used to play the cello in the Philharmonic." Lestrade makes it sound as easy as "I just grabbed some milk from the market nearby".

"When did you get started?"

"Eh, three months ago." Lestrade answers in hesitation. He was tense again because of Mycroft's freezing voice.

Mycroft is really a bit irritated by the fact that he's been tricked for such a long time and unable to observe it. But he was more shattered by what Lestrade has done for him. Instead saying anything more, Mycroft directly pulled Lestrade into the bed room, their tongues tangling eagerly.

Mycroft wonders how much more he could love Lestrade and how many more surprises this man will bring him. Mycroft used to confirm, not wonder. And now he find more reasons to like Christmas.

You see, things have changed.


End file.
